


"A starving child" - Lamb's POV on Baz

by GallaPlacidia



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Baz just needs help, Baz's vampire journey, Book 2: Wayward Son, Canon Compliant, Gen, I do not ship Baz and Lamb! I want to make that clear!, My heart broke for Baz in some scenes and I just wanted to see what Lamb thought of him, Spoilers for Book 2: Wayward Son, mentor/mentee, not romantic - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 07:47:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20811581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallaPlacidia/pseuds/GallaPlacidia
Summary: Lamb feels pity for Baz and I want to unpack itThere’s an intruder at the party. I can’t work out how old he is.Young, when he was Turned, of course. Very young, and very handsome. Dressed with eccentricity and taste, the kind of refinement that only comes from having had money for a very long time. He looks utterly bored and at ease, but when a Bleeder laughs past him, blood on her neck, his eyes follow her with a strange expression. Distaste? How interesting. How old is he?How old is he?





	"A starving child" - Lamb's POV on Baz

**Author's Note:**

> VERY MUCH SPOILERS FOR WAYWARD SON
> 
> For me, the scenes between Lamb and Baz were at the core of Wayward Son, and were what makes it "Baz's book". I thought they were delicate and heartbreaking. I wanted to see how that would look from Lamb's perspective; so this is really just some of those scenes from a different POV, nothing very original -- all the dialogue is Rowell's. 
> 
> N. B. I DO NOT SHIP THEM OBVIOUSLY but this fic is about their sort of mentor/mentee relationship.

**Lamb**

There’s an intruder at the party. I can’t work out how old he is.

Young, when he was Turned, of course. Very young, and _very_ handsome. Dressed with eccentricity and taste, the kind of refinement that only comes from having had money for a very long time. He looks utterly bored and at ease, but when a Bleeder laughs past him, blood on her neck, his eyes follow her with a strange expression. Distaste? How interesting. How _old_ is he?

When you’re my age, the “half your age plus seven” formula no longer applies. If you’re four hundred, there’s not much difference between a lover who’s three hundred and one who’s only one hundred and fifty. But there is a threshold. Anyone under a hundred is too young for me. They’re still too tethered to what they were before.

No one’s approached him yet, although he’s _delectable_, because they know he wasn’t invited. They’re leaving him to me.

“Hello,” I say. “Can I get you something to drink?”

He doesn’t seem surprised to be addressed. He looks me up and down, coolly and dispassionately, then lifts his full glass for an answer.

He must be over a hundred. They don’t make people like this anymore. He’s as restrained as if there were never any World Wars.

I smile.

“You’re… not from around here, are you?” I ask.

“Is it that obvious?”

Ah. The plot thickens. He’s English. How did he get out? We haven’t had any refugees for years. The last few we had were not like _him_, either— they were wrecks; their teeth ripped out, completely destroyed by fear and paranoia. Where has he been _keeping_ himself?

“It is now. London?”

“By way of Hampshire.”

“I know it well.” I hold out my hand. “Lamb.”

“Chaz,” he says, taking my hand. “You’ve been to Hampshire?”

“Have I been gone so long?” _Only four hundred years._ “Do I pass as American now?”

“I’m so sorry,” he says smoothly. “I take it back.”

Oh, I _like_ him. Such pretty manners. I ask him what brings him here.

“I’m here on holiday,” he lies. “I’ve always wanted to see Las Vegas.”

He didn’t strike me as stupid, and yet the lie is so transparently idiotic. Vampires don’t just _pop over_ to America for a quick visit. They save up for decades to pay the smugglers, they make the dangerous voyage, they risk their lives, and then they’re killed by bigoted British mages before they can get out.

“That’s a long flight,” I say. “Did you fill your shampoo bottles with O-negative—or make intimate friends with the person sitting next to you on the plane?”

He laughs, a controlled, lean greyhound sort of sound. I can tell it comes out of him when he wants it to, just the right amount. It reveals nothing. 

“I fasted. It helps with the jetlag.”

Did he. Between that, and his distaste for the Bleeder who passed him, I’m beginning to formulate a theory.

Next Blood. Although it still doesn’t explain everything. We talk a little more, idle pleasantries— he’s very good at small talk, he must be aristocracy of some kind. He claims he’s going home in two weeks. I’m half-tempted to explain our asylum seekers policy to him, in case he thinks he’s going to have to immigrate here illegally.

I manage to shock him out of his composure when I tell him about the Liverpudlian I met who drank a whole crew on his way over to America. He may be good at hiding his feelings, but I’m better. I don’t let on that I know his deal. His abominable, New Vampire nonsense. When I offer him a drink, he makes some joke and deflects. Does he have any idea how suspicious he’s being?

He seems awfully concerned about Mages. I suppose that’s the Britishness. They haven’t the luxury of forgetting about the Mages, in Britain. Not when they keep being set alight for nothing.

It harms everyone, as he proves when he tells me that British vampires kill everyone they eat.

“We can’t afford witnesses,” he says nonchalantly.

“No. I suppose you can’t…”

“I apologise. I’ve offended you.”

I hadn’t realised my emotions were written so clearly on my face. He has gone rather stiff, and suddenly, even though I am almost positive that he is a Next Blood, I feel pity for him. There’s something in his cautiousness that screams shame. Maybe it’s just that he’s so good looking, so very, very attractive; but I want to set him at ease. I want to see what he’d be like if he wasn’t hiding… whatever it is he’s hiding.

“Take a walk with me,” I say.

He hesitates before nodding. He’s painfully prudent. He walks as if he’s been trying to conceal his true strength and grace all his life.

Never mind if he’s a Next Blood. For tonight, I’m just going to enjoy him.

I manage not to laugh when he tells me his last name is _Watford_. I’m beginning to think he’s either stupider than he looks, or younger than he seems.

“I keep waiting for you to notice,” I say, after hours of walking around the Strip.

“Notice what?” He’s loosened up a bit with the alcohol.

I take him by the shoulder (I’ll admit I just want to touch him) and spin him around to look at the sidewalk.

My hand is still on his shoulder when he realises we’re surrounded by vampires. I can feel his whole body hitch.

“Our town,” I say into his ear. “Yours.”

His mask has fallen. He is completely undone. He’s never seen anything like this before. _How old is he?_ It’s rude to ask.

I take him to get milkshakes. He’s enjoying himself. I know he is, because he’s stopped guarding his laughter.

He’s so pale. He must be starving. I drag us into an alleyway, catch a Bleeder, and take a sip before offering him to Chaz.

His fangs have popped. He looks _ravenous_, hungrier than I’ve seen anyone in a long time, but again: disgusted.

“I—I can’t.”

“You can.”

“We’re in public.”

“I promise it doesn’t matter.”

He physically turns away.

“I can’t.”

Enough fun and games. I let the Bleeder go, and shove Chaz up against the wall. He’s so clueless that he didn’t even see this coming.

_“Who are you?!_”

“I told you,” he says. He’s not nearly frightened enough.

“What’s your name?” I spit blood onto his lips as I talk. He doesn’t even lick them. His self-control is unthinkable. I wouldn't believe it if someone described it to me. 

I press my forehead into his.

“What’s. Your. Name.”

“Baz. What’s _yours_.” Cocky boy.

“Lamb will do.” I pull out a lighter and hold it near his hair. “Now tell me why you’re here.”

I’d much rather not light him on fire. I’ve grown rather fond of him.

A lighter near the head will make most vampires uncontrollably spew their secrets, but his eyes only flicker to it once before settling back to meet mine.

“I already told you,” he says, suddenly as cool and composed as he was back at the party. “I’m on holiday.”

I bring the lighter so close to his hair that if he moves so much as an inch— if he’s hit by a breeze— he’ll go up in flames.

_That_ gets him.

_“I’m looking for the Next Blood!”_ he says, too loudly.

I let him go. I had _so_ hoped he was more interesting than that.

“Oh, Chaz. Not you, too.”

“What does that mean?”

There are lots of handsome young men. Not many with clipped English accents and 19th century manners, it’s true, but that’s only one flavour of intrigue. I walk away.

“Lamb!”

“You won’t find them here,” I tell him. “Not anymore.”

He actually runs to catch up with me. Christ, he must be desperate.

“But you know where they are!” His voice is free again, truthful and unguarded. I won’t deny that it’s appealing.

“Everyone knows where they are.”

He grabs my arm. 

He's naive.

I think he might be young. _Actually_ young.

“I don’t. I don’t know where they are. _And they have my friend._”

His grip on my arm is so much lighter than he’s capable of. I’m reminded of the forcefully _human_ way he moves, of the aggressively pleasant way he talks, of how everything about him is artifice—but this isn’t. This _friend_ of his.

“That’s true,” I say.

“It _is_ true.”

“It’s the first true thing you’ve said to me.”

“Lamb—help me. _Please_.”

He’s young. Far too young for me— I doubt he’s even eighty yet. He’s a foolish idiot who wants something from me, and it’s unlikely that I’ll get anything back.

But I like watching him plead.

“Not here. Tomorrow. Two o’clock. Lotus of Siam.” I walk away, confident that he’s hanging on my every word. “Now go get something to drink.”

He’s practically grey. _He wouldn’t even lick blood off his lips._ These Next Blooders will be the death of me.

By the morning I’m regretting my decision to see Chaz—Baz— again. But when he arrives at Lotus of Siam, he looks even better than the night before, and he’s wearing a stylish black suit. I still think he’s probably too young for me (although I’m hoping to find out for sure over lunch), but I have the cultural scene to think about. If I can only get him to give up this Next Blood nonsense, I think he’d be quite an asset to the Vegas social landscape.

I order, and he tells me that his friend is a mage— I suppose that’s why he’s so obsessed with them. I wonder how he’s managed to befriend someone who presumably wants to stake him through the heart.

Then the food arrives. And Baz— cool, composed Baz—who can resist a bloodied throat, freely offered, who doesn’t blink when a lighter flickers against his face—completely loses control of his fangs.

Over some _pork_, of all things.

“Baz,” I say. I’m about to chastise him, when I catch his expression.

He’s horrified. His mouth is tightly closed. How, _how_ has this never come up for him before? Why didn’t whoever Turned him explain this? How is he so polished and yet so woefully uneducated?

“Take a deep breath,” I tell him. He does, and then looks agonised. It seems to have made it worse.

I move the dishes away from him. _How old is he?_

“Look at me.”

He’s staring at me like he’s drowning.

“Breathe.”

He is humiliated.

“This is an animal response. And you are not an animal.”

He nods jerkily.

“You are a man, Baz.” _Barely_. “You are in control, not the thirst. You don’t just take what you want when you want it. I’ve seen that— you weren’t even tempted last night.”

The waiter sets more dishes down. Baz looks away to hide his mouth. Has he never eaten in public before?

“How do you control yourself? When you’re thirsty, and there’s a beating heart laid before you?”

“I—” he begins, and I have to keep from raising my voice.

“Do _not_ open your mouth.”

He snaps it shut. He looks utterly miserable.

“Think about it… Think of that control. Now take control, Baz. You know how they feel when they break through your gums.”

He keeps nodding. He’s trying not to cry.

I can’t believe I fell for his act at the party. His _seen it all, bored of it already_ stance. He hasn’t seen _anything_. Who Turned him, and how did they mess it up this badly?

“Imagine pulling them back. _Feel_ them pulling back.”

He closes his eyes and droops his head forward. I think maybe no one’s ever talked to him about this. But how long has it been? How long has he been suffering through this alone?

I put my hand on his.

“Pull them back. Tuck them in. You can do this.”

I wish we weren’t in a public place. If I’d know he was so bloody _savage_ I would have brought him back to my place.

And then he looks up at me. His eyes are wild with astonishment. His fangs are gone.

I feel like I’ve just taught a child how to walk.

I serve us food.

“You can do this.”

We don’t speak as we eat. He doesn’t seem to taste the food. All he’s thinking of is his fangs, which keep popping. But he pushes them back each time, glancing at me anxiously, as if he’s worried I’m going to scold him. His jaw is trembling by the time the waiter comes to take away his empty plate.

I look up at him and something ancient churns inside me, a feeling I haven't felt for...a long time. He's beaming at me with neat white teeth. He looks unbearably proud of himself. I helped him. He needed me, and I helped him. 

It’s so rude to ask, but I think he might not know that. I think, somehow, he might not know _anything_.

“Baz… how old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“Right. And I’m thirty-four. How old are you _really_.”

His eyes are shiny with tears. He looks up at the ceiling to keep them from falling.

“Twenty,” he says.

_Twenty_. He’s only twenty, and he has no one, and he’s been figuring this all out on his own. No wonder he wants the Next Blood: he wants someone to look after him. But I could do that just as well. Not in a romantic sense (it’s hard to be attracted to someone with all the maturity of Bambi learning how to walk). But I feel passionately sorry for him, somehow. I want him to be taken care of.

“Right. Let’s talk about the Next Blood.”

When he finally realises I’m on to him, he looks shocked.

“Nicks and Slick, you think I’m one of them!”

I don’t say anything.

“Eight snakes and a dragon!”

“What is this? Are you stalling? Or hysterical? You know the terms of our treaty, the punishment is severe—”

“Lamb, no! I am hapless and ignorant and out of my depth, but I am not that.” He seems sincere, but I’m unconvinced. He didn’t drink last night, at _all_, and it wasn’t because he didn’t want to.

He stands.

“Take a walk with me?”

I can’t quite believe it when he buys a rabbit from a pet shop. Surely, surely he isn’t going to eat it. It must have all the nutritional value of a rice cake.

He takes me to dumpster.

“Anyone could be watching,” I say, and I’m thinking of vampires as much as I am thinking of Bleeders. This is _embarrassing_. It’s _revolting_. “It’s broad daylight,” I point out.

He’s unfazed.

“Block me.”

I do, because I’m morbidly fascinated.

With an expertly smooth movement— the first time I’ve seen him let himself move the way I know he could all the time if he weren’t so repressed— he breaks the rabbit’s neck and sucks it dry. It’s an incredibly neat operation. He drops the body into the dumpster.

Is he… is he trying to tell me he doesn’t drink blood? Real, human blood? _Oh, Baz. You’re the worst vampire that’s ever been bitten._

“Oh Baz,” I begin, but then I catch the haughty, defiant look in his eyes. He's embarrassed again. I think I’ve embarrassed him a great deal over the course of this lunch. I think he’s barely holding himself together. “No wonder you’re so pale,” I say. “You’re malnourished.”

He laughs.

“But I’m not one of them.”

“No. You’re a starving child from an oppressed nation who has barely met himself. But you are not one of them.”

He blinks, as if he wants to disagree with me. But there’s something like relief there, too. As if he’s been waiting a long time for someone not to be fooled by his whole performance of total independence. As if it’s a relief for someone to finally call him that: a child.

“Help me,” he whispers. “Tell me where to find them. They have my friend.”

And although he’s asking about the Next Blood, about his friend, I understand what he means beneath the surface. I understand which two words he meant the most. _“Help me,”_ he asked. _Because no one ever has._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my strange spewings! I just finished the book today and felt inspired. I'd love to talk more about these scenes with people in the comments because I thought they were so interesting from a Baz-character-development point of view!


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